Half-Time
by TaekwondoAssKicking
Summary: You know that moment when you feel like repeatedly banging your head against a wall? That's it. On one hand, you have the suicidal, friendless, bullied teen who is failing all his classes. On another, you have the closet musician with a keen mind who happens to be one of the world's best hackers. Now, what to do when an off-grid CIA Agent discovers you? And, is all what it seems?
1. Morning Classes

**Ch1: Morning Classes**

Gilbert stared at the paper that was handed to him by the bespectacled, ever-scowling, forever-grumpy and suspiciously stinky Mr. Edelstein. It was blotched full of angry red marks, covering the paper from head to toe. At the very top right-hand corner, a very nice _29 _encompassed in a red circle glared out at him.

All things considered, not bad. Not bad at all. Specially since it was Geometry. Specially _because _it was geometry.

A cough made him look up. Youthful crimson red met the annoyed hard lines and steel purple eyes of one Mr Edelstein.

"Yeeeees?" Gilbert asked in that annoying tone of his, an arrogant smirk gracing his pale features. Mr. Edelstein's frown deepened, annoyance dancing in his eyes. Annoyance turned into malice. Hmm that did not bode well. Nope. Before Gilbert had the chance of stuffing the test away – preferably between the lined pages of a random notebook – he felt the thin paper slip out of his grasp in one forceful and paper-crinkling motion.

"Class, this is _exactly _what _not_ to do," the teacher announced to the class loudly, holding up Gilbert's multicolored test up for all to see. "Please refrain from messing up a test this bad in the future, as Mr. Beilschmidt here has _somehow _managed to do."

Everyone laughed, their laughter cutting deeply into Gilbert's heart. He heard someone whisper "Seriously? But that was super easy!" and someone else commented "That's cuz he's _stupid._" Even though the only thing Gilbert felt like doing at the moment was to make himself smaller and hide under the desk, he got his bearings and forced his famous happy smirk on his lips.

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Grumps," Gilbert quipped at the teacher. The class sniggered, making some of the weight in his heart ease up a bit. Not laughing _at _him, but _with _him now! Mr. Edelstein's eyes narrowed, not liking being called Mr. Grumps, probably, even if the name was pretty... accurate. Actually, a more accurate name would be Mr. Prissy, Gilbert silently mused to himself. Mr. Edelstein tsked regally – regaining lost attention – and made a show of looking over his test, one arm held behind his back. Che, aristocrat much?

"Really, Mr. Beilschmidt?" Mr. Edelstein commented nasally, "I did not know that the concept of square roots was so difficult for you to grasp – or that of addition and subtraction, for that matter."

_Oh yeah? Well I didn't know that the concept of showering was so difficult for you to grasp – or that of soap and deodorant, for that matter. _

Gilbert scowled at the desk, keeping that thought from leaving his mouth with some difficulty, wishing for the bell to ring. _Don't let them see how much this is affecting you, _he reminded himself. _Bell should ring any second now._

"Stupid."

_Bell, time to ring._

"Haha! Serves him right!"

_You can ring now._

"Honestly, he's so annoying – can't we ever get anything done with him in class?"

_Oh Bell, where art thou? And can you spare Gilbert so?_

"He's so pathetic, look at him! He doesn't even care."

_Ooh~ Bell~ Caaaan~ you RIIING~ __by the dawn's early light~_

"Worthless idiot."

_Fuck you, Bell._

"Well, I didn't know that the concept of deodorant was so difficult for _you _to grasp," Gilbert shot at the teacher, feeling a bit riled up. It dawned on him a second later that the words held some venom tone wise, and that he should work on keeping his mouth shut. "But, hey, no one can be as awesome as me~ Kesesese~" Gilbert had no idea why he said that, but it worked in covering his earlier slip up. He doubted anyone noticed, anyways.

"That made no sense, Mr. Beilschmidt." Mr Edelstein's eye twitched, and Gilbert could see a furious light glinting behind them that made even _him _a little wary. "And I do not appreciate smart comebacks, Mr. Beilschmidt, not even the ones that took you five minutes to think up."

_Nope. I just have good self-restraint... most of the time... ish. Crap the Priss looks kind of scary-_

"And for your rude behavior, Mr. Beilschmidt, you and your 'Awesomeness' can march straight to the Principal's Off-"

The bell rang.

Gilbert fished his test from the evil clutches of Mr Prissy-Pants and was out the door with his things before the grumpy 'general math' teacher could finish that sentence.

"GILBERT BEILSCHMIDT!"

Gilbert ran to his next class, which was, thankfully, at the other end of the spectrum.

Of course, contrary to popular belief, Gilbert's life was never that easy.

He entered a hallway, he could see his next class all the way at the other end, but just as he did so he was blocked by none other than Francis Bonnefoy and Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo AKA two of the most popular jocks in Hetaroma High AKA two of his personal tormentors.

Great. Same thing as every day. How awesome.

Please note the sarcasm.

"Fuck off."

"Ohonhonhon~ now that's no way to talk to your betters, _oui?_" Francis leaned his back slightly against the lockers, arms crossed and one foot resting on the never-ending wall of green metal. "We must teach 'im a lesson, don't you think, mon ami?"

"Si, you shouldn't swear in the hallways!" the bubbly Spaniard said happily, but Gilbert could see the satisfaction underneath that carefree smile.

Gilbert scowled at them, but said nothing. Say nothing, do nothing. Say nothing, do nothi-

"Ah, you should be careful with zat scowl, mon cher," Francis smirked at him, "We wouldn't want your face to stay zat way forever, non?"

Antonio laughed. "Not possible, amigo!" he grinned at Gilbert. Gilbert's crimson eyes narrowed. "He's always scowling, so there wouldn't be any improvement!"

_Give me a reason why I shouldn't be scowling, dummkopf._

"Oui, I bet if he showed something else other zan a scowl then the mirror would break."

Gilbert bit the inside of his cheek; _say nothing, do nothing!_

"You mean to say that the mirror wouldn't break now?" Antonio looked at the Frenchman in confusion. "Yo pienso que his face has no chance, verdad?"

"Oui," Francis gave a single, solemn nod. "No chance at all. 'Is face gets uglier and uglier every time I see 'im."

Antonio laughed, making Gilbert want to crawl under his bed and just stay there until the Apocalypse.

The second bell rang.

What a beautiful sound.

Gilbert started going to class, but was stopped by a rough hand pulling the hood of his Prussian Blue hoodie back, making him momentarily choke. He was then slammed against the lockers by Francis. The Parisian had his elbow pressed against Gilbert's chest, pinning him down. He looked at it, resolved to make absolutely no eye-contact.

"Where do you think you're going, mon chere?"

Gilbert said nothing. If something came out of his mouth, it wouldn't be pretty. Say nothing, do nothing. No witty retorts. No sucker punching the French student or knocking out the Spanish one. No kicking of the nuts of any kind.

"Class, you know, that place where they take monkeys just like you and try to educate them? I'd rather appreciate it if you let go of me."

Francis' azure blue eyes narrowed dangerously. "We should teach 'im a lesson; Antonio?"

From behind Francis, Antonio popped his knuckles, friendly grin never leaving.

Uh-oh. Now what? Francis punched him in the gut, making Gilbert bend over himself, half slumping. He heard something metal creak open, and was then promptly manhandled by the two inside a small very cramped space in the wall – Gilbert's red hues widened when he realized that he was unceremoniously being stuffed inside a locker. He tried to get out, but Antonio pushed him back inside – Gilbert had none of that, though, so he pushed himself out one more time, but this time, instead of going for freedom like a normal person would, he sucker punched the Spaniard in the mouth, making the tan boy cry out in pain. Gilbert was then shoved from the side by Francis, causing him to yelp and trip back in – and hitting his head on the metallic wall behind him, pain making him close his eyes on impact.

SLAM!

Gilbert opened his eyes. It would have been completely dark if it wasn't for the three horizontal lines of outside light glaring into his eyes, making him squint in discomfort.

"Ohonhon~" came the somewhat muffled laugh. "I 'ope you are comfortable in zere, Gilbert!"

Gilbert growled; it was far from comfortable! His chest couldn't properly expand every time he breathed because of the tight space! He couldn't move! At fucking all! His shoulders were too broad! And then there was the odd sound of air compressed in a tight metallic space zooming in his ears.

"FUCK!" Giilbert yelled angrily, hitting his forehead on the locked door. He squirmed inside the small-spaced goddammed _coffin. _The walls felt as if they were pressing in on him.

He heard laughter. Gilbert felt anger course through his veins, making him all warm around his neck – or was that embarrassment? He did not know. One thing he _did _know, though, was that when he got out of here he was going to-

"You are a fail, mi querido rival," Antonio's happy voice floated in.

"So was your dad's condom," came the instant reply.

KA-BLAM! Gilbert flinched at the loudness, the sound having been amplified in the small space; Antonio had kicked the locker, and was now swearing non-stop in Spanish, Francis trying to calm him down, if the muffled French nonsensical garble was anything to go by.

An angry Antonio was rare and nearly un-heard of. An angry Antonio was a scary Antonio. Huh, maybe being stuck inside this locker wasn't such a bad thing...

Angry Antonio aside, Gilbert felt that he was screwed. He messed up. He messed up _again. _

Gilbert decided then and there that he should probably start finding a new route. It was that or getting sent to the Principal's Office (capital letters) yet again. He's been sent there so many times by now, that the whole staff knew his full name, phone number, and class schedule by heart. Yes, even the interns. He had quite the impressive record... and reputation. In fact, his "delinquent reputation" extended all the way through town, not only the high school.

Too bad no one understood that Gilbert, despite his so called delinquent record, was actually far from being one. Was it really his fault that trouble always seemed to find him one way or another? That he had really really bad timing? That no one liked him despite not knowing him? He tried, he really did sometimes, but was it his fault that on top of having bad luck, he was maybe a tad too prideful? If people stopped ganging up on him so much, then they would probably discover that Gilbert was actually quite mellow deep inside. Deep, deep inside.

But, lately, Gilbert's been trying extra hard not to fight back. Contrary to popular belief, he _really _didn't want to get expelled...

So much for not fighting back.

...

...

...Oh Gott, It smelled like month-old socks in here.


	2. Unfair? Yes Normal? Totally

**Ch 2: Unfair? Yes. Normal? Totally.**

Not for the first time that day, Gilbert found himself landing in The Principal's Office (capital letters) yet again. And by 'first time that day' here, he meant that this was Gilbert's second trip to The Principal's Office (capital letters) since that very morning. Reason for the first trip? He slept in and arrived late to school – an hour late, to be more precise. Reason for the second trip? Well...

"He jumped us! For no good reason!" came Antonio's sobbed explanation, holding a bloodied tissue to his nose. "Francis and I were on our way to class, and he punched me! En la nariz!"

"Oui. If I 'aven't been zere to stop it, mon ami Antonio would 'ave probably need a hôpital now."

The three of them were sitting down, in front of The Principal's Desk (capital letters), the man himself studying the trio with interwined fingers. A bronze plaque on the desk had _Principal Romulus Vargas_ engraved on it, shining in the sunlight.

He was looking at Antonio with sympathy, and at Francis with a prideful glint, as if he was some sort of hero.

"You understand, Monsieur, why I 'ad to force that delinquent into a locker, oui?"

The Principal nodded, smiling at the two teens sitting properly in their seats.

Gilbert was slumping in his, legs stretched out in front of him, hands deep in his hoodie pockets. Hey, his muscles were sore and cramped! And, besides, authority figures all seemed to dislike him on sight, and Principal Vargas was no exception. Why should he show respect when they showed none to him?

"Mr. Beilschmidt, you have one month's worth of after-school detentions starting today," Principal Vargas' accented voice sounded gruff when directed at him.

"WHAT!?" Gilbert stood up, feeling indignation and anger shoot through his body. "That is SO not fair! It was THEM that-"

"MR. BEILSCHMIDT! SIT DOWN!"

Gilbert sat down inmediately, flinching ever so subtly. Principal Vargas turned to the other two in the room.

"Francis, Antonio; you may leave. Beilschmidt, you stay seated!"

Francis and Antonio left, the first giving Gilbert a smirk behind the Principal's back. This irked Gilbert to no end, if only the Principal _turned around-_

"Beilschmidt, I am getting sick and tired of having you come in here every day for fighting, vandalising school property, skipping class, stealing-"

"I did no such thing!" Gilbert protested, feeling insulted. Vargas glared. It was a scary glare.

"Oh? You did not punch Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo in the face?"

"Yes, but-"

"Or Alfred F. Jones, for that matter?"

"Last week, yes, but-"

"And I am pretty sure that it was you who graffitied the cafeteria wall!"

"As awesome as that painting is, I didn't do tha-"

"Not to mention the three students who were sent to the nurse two weeks ago,"

"Hey, they started-"

"Coach Anderson's missing soccer balls was your doing, if I remember correctly,"

"Harmless prank!"

"And don't let me get started on Mr. Edelstein's constant complaints!"

"Well, he was being unawesome, and maybe if you let me explain-"

"I am sick and tired of your shenanigans, Mr. Beilschmidt!" Principal Vargas snapped, cutting Gilbert off. Again. He felt his heart lurch and his stomach drop; why did no one ever let him explain? Believe him? What did he do to deserve this? It was not fair, yet it happened all the fucking time. Gilbert looked at his lap, defeated. Why did he even try?

Why did he even try...

Sometimes, Gilbert felt like everything he did ended in failure. His life was a failure. He was a failure.

Gilbert, at that moment, longed for his precious flute. He longed to touch the metallic cool body, to rest his lips upon the gaping mouth, to gently blow and slide his pale fingers over the correct holes, letting the deep broken melody of his soul out in the open. He thought of the instrument that laid hidden in a black case under the mattress, sandwiched between wooden beams and white cotton. It was there, his flute. Waiting for him, and only him, as he was the only one in the world to know of its existence. Gilbert focused on that happy thought. At least he wasn't a failure at hiding his talents.

"Report to detention right after school; I will know if you don't show up."

Physically, Gilbert scowled at the floor. His fingers itched.

Mentally? Turmoil. The bad part would be that his father will SO hear about this...

"You are dismissed, Mr. Beilschmidt," Principal Vargas' golden eyes penetrated into him, filled with dislike. "And let this be your last visit, Mr. Beilschmidt, as next time punishment will involve you leaving this school and not returning for a long long time, if not ever."

The threat hung thick in the silence.

Great. He finally did it. He was right at the border of being expelled... and by the most carefree and happy-go-lucky Principal in the country, no less.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

"Mr. Beilschmidt!"

_Oops, did I say that out loud?_

"Yes, Mr. Beilschmidt, yes you did."

..._SO need to work on that mouth of mine..._


	3. Even More Classes and Lunch

**Ch3: Even More Classes and Lunch**

World History was interesting, as always. It was easily Gilbert's favorite class, as he loved to learn new facts about history. One of his favorite pastimes was to read historical fiction, specially the ones involving wars and revolutions, not that anyone knew about it. 'Books' and 'Gilbert Beilschmidt' never went in the same sentence together. Ever. It would cause a panic. Also, he had no friends. Of course no one would know anything about what he liked to do in his spare time . . . which wouldn't exactly be smart, in retrospect.

And the teacher was OK. Sure, Mr. Laurinatis, like the rest, did not like him, but hey, at least the guy did his best to treat him fair. He tolerated him, for the most part. Ish. It was a decent amount of tolerance – even if it was a tense, stiffening silence type of tolerance. The man was a pushover, and his gentle nature made him seem weak (which for some reason pissed Gilbert off) but damn, at least the guy tried.

Gilbert did not feel attacked in class, a far cry from how he always felt.

A ripped piece of notebook paper made its way to Gilbert's desk. Making sure that the teacher wasn't looking his way (Laurinatis had the eyes of a freaking hawk) he opened the crinkled note.

_go dai DeMon_

. . . OK, Gilbert did not feel attacked _for the most part. _The students were a whole different matter.

And dang, that was horrible grammar right there. It was painful to the eyes.

Gilbert entertained the idea of how this person's blasphemous grammar was the true demon, trying his best to ignore how tight his throat had become. . .

Demon. That wretched word...

Dang, he had sand in his eyes! Fuck!

**OoooOoooO**

Economy class was a bore. And annoying. Alfred Fucking Jones kept throwing spitballs at the back of his head. Stupid assigned seats. Also, Gilbert had no freaking idea what the heck he was doing in this class. Graphs? Dafuq? Why does this thingy increase when that other thing did that? Wouldn't it be the opposite? And what was that other line's name? And was it him, or did this nonsense make no sense? At all?

"Good job, Alfred! Highest grade in the class!"

. . . Yeah. It was him.

. . .

. . .

Goddam those spitballs!

Soggy spitballs bounced off the top of his head for the rest of the class. For 39 fucking minutes.

_Say nothing, do nothing..._

**OoooOoooO**

Chemistry passed by without anything eventful happening, other than the fact that someone set their lab table on fire. Gilbert was not blamed for the incident, as he had decided to fall asleep in class while that happened. That, and because he sat at the table furthest away from the crime scene, at the back of the class, with Alice Kirkland doodling boredly beside him acting as a key witness.

Not that Alice Kirkland as a witness held much weight. The British punk also had quite the record herself. Gilbert wouldn't even count her as an acquaintance, as they barely ever spoke, but she seemed the only one in this entire school that could tolerate his presence long enough to sit in silence in front of him during Chemistry Lab Days.

Everyone was partnered in groups of five or six. Theirs was the only group of two.

It was a sad sight, but a nice break for Gilbert altogether. The teacher ignored him and Alice, not even sparing them a glance. They were at the very back, so people couldn't point fingers and laugh at them. The teacher would yell at them if they did so. But only because that would mean that they would be poking fun at the Stupid Freak and at the Punk of Isolation instead of paying attention to the class at hand.

It was a nice break. A nice break that came only once or twice a month, sometimes every two.

Alice Kirkland was the only person in the world who's able to claim to have seen the loud and obnoxious albino be calm and quiet. Likewise, Gilbert held the record of not having a single British swear word thrown at him for a certain period of time.

"Now, class, please turn in your homework along with your lab sheets!" the teacher announced from the forefront of the class.

Gilbert bit his lip. His lab was nonexistent and his homework assignment was more than half-way done, but wasn't sure whether or not he had the right answers.

He decided not to turn it in. The teacher would think that he was stupid, like everyone kept saying. Besides, if he turned homework in, the poor teacher would probably have a heart attack.

He sucked at Chemistry. He liked exploding things and he supposed chemical formulas were OK, but stoichiometry or whatever that crap was called was a complete drag.

**OoooOoooOooo**

French II. How Gilbert got into this class was way beyond him.

He couldn't speak it for the life of him – that damn accent – and don't even let him get started on that blasted _passé composé! _It didn't help that the teacher used to be the Latin teacher. Latin was a dead language, so obviously, they shouldn't be taught the same freaking way. All they did in French was translate translate translate, just like what the Latin students claimed to do in Latin I, II, and III.

Latin was a _dead _language. No one will go around speaking it, like French!

Dead and Living languages apart, he had many reasons to hate this class:

1) He was wired for speaking German

2) Teacher sucked

3) He sucked even more

4) It reminded him of that fucking Frenchman

5) Those accents were the bane of his existence – they went _both _ways, for Gott's sake! Should've taken Spanish. Or some other language that lacked accents.

6) He couldn't pronounce the damned words

And 7) it was right before lunch, and after gym (which he skipped most of the time)

Luuuuunch. When was this thing over again? Gilbert snuck a glance at the clock.

Almost there. 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... 1.5... 1... 1.75... Oh, that stupid clo-

The bell rang.

Major reason he was failing the class was because he spent it staring at the clock.

He had the last lunch of the day; of course he wouldn't be paying proper attention!

Not that they learned anything useful with this method of teaching anyways. Gilbert felt too embarrassed to shout out for help in French, because he was too damn well sure that the French or French-Canadian or French-African cop passing by would be too preoccupied either deciphering Gilbert's failed-accented cries for help or laughing his French ass off instead of saving him from the imagined murderer hailing from whatever nationality the imagined cop came from.

For all the cop knew, Gilbert could be screaming for more toilet paper instead of being brutally murdered on the streets of la Rochelle.

He could see it now, at the front page of every newspaper in town;

'Albino Teen Brutally Murdered While Screaming For More Toilet Paper'

**OoooOoooO**

Lunch. Everyone loved lunch.

Everyone except Gilbert, that is.

Every day, Gilbert would get shoved to the very end of the growing lunch line, got whatever mystery meat or maybe some of the this-does-not-look-like-mashed-potatoes mashed potatoes, a normal-looking fruit that may or may not house less than delicious inhabitants, and a small carton of milk that was actually the only thing safe to consume – spoiled milk was easy to spot; it tasted rancid! (It sucked being the very last. You get what no one wants) and after all that, he was then left to make his way to whatever lone table available, trying hard to dodge people set on bumping into him, trying to spill his own lunch all over himself in front of the whole cafeteria. Yeah, it has happened before.

But, yeah, after all that, Gilbert always ended up eating his food (or poking the food with increased weariness) completely alone in his usual corner. (Unless that corner got occupied. Usually by the football team. On purpose. Of which a certain Alfred F. Jones was star captain of).

Gilbert sat down, and proceeded to poke the... paddy? Sausage thing? Flat meatball o' doom? Was that beef? It was covered in flaky black stuff. It looked like _burnt_ beef. Gilbert cut a small piece with his plastic knife and stabbed it with his plastic fork. Bringing it up slowly to his mouth – he found that it smelled like gravy – he gave a small prayer... it didn't smell _that _bad... he ate it.

It tasted like chicken. _Raw_ chicken. With a crunchy layer of charcoal.

Gilbert pushed the lunch tray away from him, looking a little green. He was pretty sure that anything that looked like burnt beef and tasted like raw chicken could be classified as a hazardous substance. And... well, Gilbert thought he got an apple. Who knew that it was actually an orange?

...Yep. Definitely skipping lunch today. Again.

Uh-oh. Bulky athletic figures coming his way ahoy. Gilbert looked around the cafeteria. It was crowded. It was loud. It was a maze of long grey tables. Maybe he could slip through the crowd unnoticed? His eyes zeroed in on Mr. Edelstein's patrolling figure. Gilbert looked at the teacher. Then at the intimidating students. Back at the teacher. What were the chances of Mr. Edelstein letting him leave the cafeteria? Or prancing around said cafeteria in hopes of losing the bullies?

He ignored the small wave of panic building up in him. He felt helpless. Cornered. Gilbert thought of his flute. Must. Not. Panic.

The group of Hulks suddenly changed directions, backing away almost instantly.

_Whaaaa...?_

A muscled arm encompassed in a thick sleeve made its way around his shoulder, trapping him. He froze.

"How about we go for walk, da?"

Gilbert felt like fainting.

He much preferred the not-green Hulks...


	4. Ms H and Hello Again Mr Principal

**A/N: Sorry if this chapter sucks. Also, I don't own Hetalia, nor whatever other references that decide to crash the story. Pretend that this disclaimer is in all of the chapters in _Half-Time_, both past and future. **

**Enjoy, my cute little readers~**

**Ch4: Ms. H and Hello Again Mr. Principal**

Not for the first time in his High School career, Gilbert entered a class grumbling nonsensical German under his breath. If anyone understood German - like perhaps a certain Mr. Edelstein, the poor soul, not his fault that the Austrian had virgin ears – then the sinful words coming out of the albino's mouth would've been cause for concern – if not much scolding and more detentions on top of being sent to the Office. Again.

Let's just say that the words coming out of Gilbert's mouth were practically on par with the Profanity King Lovino Vargas, and leave it at that.

There was a gasp.

But, then again...

"GILBERT ALDRICH BEILSCHMIDT!"

Gilbert groaned. He had English now. He forgot.

Daaaaaaang.

"Hallo Ms. H."

He was met with a furious glare in return, the Hungarian English teacher standing by the blackboard with "The Plot Pyramid" drawn on it in bright orange chalk, said chalk broken clean in half in the angry woman's fists.

Ms. Héderváry knew some German. And boy, did Gilbert feel screwed now . . . for many reasons.

"You are over five minutes late, Gilbert!" the Hungarian screeched. "AND WHY ARE YOU SOAKING WET!?"

"My awesome face decided to go for a swim in the toilet," Gilbert answered back matter-of-factly, crimson red glinting with amusement.

Ms. H had none of it.

"Fine! I don't need to know what shenanigans you were up to _this _time!" Ms. H put the chalk down with such force, that the chalk-holder collapsed. No one in the class batted and eye – they were far too used to teachers going bananas when Gilbert Beilschmidt was involved.

Ironically for Gilbert, he had told her the truth. His face _did _go for a little swim down the pristine white bowl in the men's room – shoved down it, more like it. By none other than the infamous Ivan Braginsky. Or, to be more precise, Ivan Braginsky's henchmen.

The Russian just watched as Gilbert almost drowned a couple of times in the toilet.

Gilbert bit his cheek, trying hard not to laugh;

'Albino Teen Drowns In Toilet'

"And what about this is funny, Gilbert?"

Ms. H had her hands crossed over her bosom, looking less than amused.

Gilbert smirked; everything was funny when taken in stride. And, at least, all he got this time was a humiliating face-dipping in the men's room and not a beating like last time. Gilbert bruised quite easily, despite his more than bold actions and fights in school. His delicate albino skin marked easily, not to mention, burned easily. He was pretty sure that he had quite the bruise on his abdomen from his earlier scuffle with Frenchy and Spanish Boy.

Abdomen. That's good. Easy to cover up.

A long, frustrated sigh. "Just sit down, Gilbert."

Gilbert shrugged, and feeling the weight of many annoyed eyes on him, made his way towards the very last row of desks, at the corner, right next to the window. He sat down with a heavy plop, and looking up, he saw his classmates half-turned, some staring at him with scrunched up noses, others sniggering quietly at him. He saw Lovino Vargas mutter what probably was "Bastard" under his breath, which didn't faze Gilbert one bit, as that was Lovino Vargas for you. The mouthed "Failure" coming from Francis followed by Alfred's nod and smirk, on the other hand, irked him. Antonio was snoring next to Francis, drooling all over his blank notes.

Gilbert made sure Ms. H was turned around before casually giving them all the finger. Much to his amusement, Lovino returned the favor in double.

After everyone's attention was finally off him, his gaze moved almost instinctively out the window. The trees were going through their transition of summer to winter, their plumage holding deep reds, strong browns, and dead greens. Gilbert sighed, propping an elbow on his desk, leaning his cheek on his pale, calloused hand. He let his thoughts wander, which he usually didn't do, because they could get really dark really fast.

He constantly felt under attack throughout the day, by both teachers and students alike. Be it physically, verbally, mentally, or just plain refusing him any help, he was always surrounded by those who wished him harm or did not give a fuck about what happened to him. Gilbert felt a constant fear clinging on stubbornly to his skin, always there, keeping him always on his toes, the feeling that anyone could gank him on his way to school or being ambushed in the hallways having a permanent housing within him.

It wasn't a very pleasant feeling to have stuck to you 85% of the day.

The teachers could care less about him. He wasn't smart, and was failing pretty much everything, even gym, which is thought to be nearly impossible to fail. He was loud and obnoxious in class, always ready to talk back, always with a smart comeback. He was a failure in both class and in life. He had no friends to support him or keep him company. No one liked him, or even took the time to actually get to know him before turning against him.

He was being brutally bullied every day, right under the teachers' noses . . . but Gilbert supposed that it wasn't really their fault.

Gilbert was a very good actor. He was also a very good liar. Not that he lied a lot, per say. Gilbert was big on doing what he did just now: 'My face took a swim in the toilet' was pretty much the truth. All he had to do was slap the word 'awesome' in the sentence, tweak the wording a tad, and use the correct tone of voice, and voilà, a truth within the lie that is actually the truth!

The irony of the situations supplied Gilbert with the daily amusement that he needed to get through the day. Unless things got too overwhelming for him, then he usually skipped. Cut things short. Go home early. Did teachers notice? Heck yeah. They liked to bitch about every single thing he did wrong, so it wasn't so surprising. They probably loved it when he disappeared from their class, one less annoyance to endure, one more thing to bitch about the following week.

Really, everyone thought that Gilbert was a loud, attention-seeking, arrogant, egoistic, trouble-making delinquent with no future. Maybe if they cared to look harder, look at him, really look, not just at that mask, but at _him, _then maybe they would see the quiet, modest, hurting teenager with self-esteem issues that he really was. If people stopped calling him names or verbally attacking him, maybe they'd see that he did not bite unless provoked.

But, Gilbert supposed, maybe this negative attention from the teachers wasn't so bad. Better than being ignored. Like in Chemistry. Seriously, the teacher even talked over him when he dared ask a question – or, at least, part of it, before chickening out. Gilbert wasn't one to ask for any type of help. Call it pride, or maybe his trust was broken one too many times, but asking for help was so, so, very, _very _difficult for him to do. It just wasn't in his nature, he guessed. He was a loner at heart.

Maybe he should go talk to the guidance counselor.

Oh, wait, the school was on a budget and students were assigned to certain guidance counselors in alphabetical order. There were two guidance counselors, one of which was also a teacher.

Guess who was in charge of letters A to L?

Mr. Roddy Prissy-Pants McGrumpy Edelstein of Stick-Up-His-Arsus Land.

Yeah. Ain't happening. No ficken way.

. . . And that's what he meant by 'dark thoughts.' Gilbert tried very hard to stay on the optimistic side of things, which was actually easier said than done. He tried, but by now though, he gave up completely on outside appearances. Really, Gilbert's closest thing to a smile was a smirk, and that was pretty much what he showed everyone. Well, that and the scowl. And pouting. But the smirk was his preferred facial expression. Even if it _did _make him seem cocky.

"Gilbert!" Ms. H's exclamation made him snap out of his thoughts.

"Hmm~?" he hummed, averting his gaze from the window.

"What are the five structures of Plot?"

_Oh mein Gott. We did this last year. And the year before that. And the one before that._

"Plot has a structure?" Gilbert asked in a deadpan voice.

_Exposition. Raising Action. Climax. Falling Action. Resolution. Duh._

"Yes, Gilbert, it has." Que to glare. She turned to the rest of the class. "Anyone?"

Someone – a guy whose name he did not care to remember – raised his hand. "Exposition, Raising Action, Climax, Falling Action, and Resolution, Ms. H." He stated, without being called.

Ms. H nodded at him with a small smile. "Yes, Tom, very good. Unlike _someone-_"

Gilbert yawned, cutting her off.

"PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE!"

Yeah. Gilbert had his reasons for hating English. And the sad part? It had nothing to do with the subject. Gilbert actually enjoyed writing as a hobby. And books were pretty awesome. He even kept a dia- err, _journal _at home.

"But I already went there today!" Gilbert whined.

"WHAT!?"

This time, the whole class flinched. Gott damn, that lady could screech like a banshee!

"GILBEEEERT!"

_...I_ **really**_ should work on keeping my mouth shut, shouldn't I...?_

**OoooOoooOoooO**

"And what, pray tell, are you doing in here _this _time, Beilschmidt?"

"I yawned in class," came the deadpanned reply.

"Quit messing around, Beilschmidt." Principal Vargas said impatiently, "Now, tell me, _why _have you been sent here _for the third time today._"

Gilbert shrugged in his chair. "Yawned in class. Simple as that," he repeated to the man in front of him. Principal Vargas was massaging his temples, curl bobbing up and down.

"I don't appreciate lying, Mr. Beilschmidt. Your reason is not acceptable."

Gilbert stared.

"I . . . really did yawn in class, Mr. Vargas." _And called Ms. H a banshee but you don't need to know that._

Principal Vargas shot him a glare. Gilbert rolled his eyes.

"Beilschmidt, do you remember exactly what I told you the last time you where in here, which may I add_, wasn't that long ago?_"

"Uh, that cafeteria food sucked?"

Gilbert knew _exactly _what Principal Vargas was talking about, but didn't particularly want to touch that future-crushing topic.

"No. I told you that the next time you showed that delinquent face of yours around here, you'd be—"

"Yeah yeah," Gilbert cut off, not liking the way that the Principal was talking to him. Geez, he wasn't retarded or anything . . . right? "I get it. You want to ship me off on a one-way trip to Expulsionlandia." Then, in a monotone commercial guy voice, he added "Shipping and handling not included."

Principal Vargas did not look amused. Gilbert sighed, knowing that if he didn't do _something, _then he REALLY was going to get expelled. What exactly, he didn't know. Principal Vargas, like many, hated his guts.

"Please tell me you aren't expelling me for yawning in class. That's so not awesome."

OK, maybe that wasn't the best approach.

A sigh. More temple massaging. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Let me go?"

"No." Glare.

Gilbert shrugged again. It was worth a shot.

"_But,_"

Gilbert didn't like the sound of that 'but' very much.

"One more slip, Beilschmidt, one more addition to your one-mile-long record . . ."

Principal Vargas let that hang in the air.

Yeah. Gilbert didn't need to hear the ending to that. Nope.

"I will expel you and make sure you don't EVER get into another school, do you understand?"

Gilbert felt terrible. The heavy blanket of depression that always followed him around but yet was always tucked away, hidden, was starting to smother him, trying to cut his air supply. Gilbert liked to pretend that there was always something out there to look out for, to reach out, to help him fight _and live._ Despite his scores, Gilbert liked to think that maybe, only maybe, someone would recognize his, ah, _skills_ and provide him with the higher education that made everyone respected and successful. But, if Gilbert couldn't even finish High School . . .

His resolve was disintegrating, and fast.

Maybe all this suffering wasn't worth it.

No. _No, _Gilbert admonished himself. _I will not go down like this. There's . . . there's still hope left. _

_Hope. _The word was beginning to sound rather empty . . .

"I will call your father, Beilschmidt. Let _him _deal with you."

Gilbert bit his cheek. Yeah, he was so gonna get it. Was it him, or did it suddenly get hot in here?

Principal Vargas' eyes narrowed, his tone icy. "I hope that I have made myself clear enough this time that your unruly behavior will no longer be tolerated."

Yes, yes he has.

"But, as I am well acquainted with your father, I am letting you go this time . . . the _last time _Mr. Beilschmidt, do you hear? This is a favor granted to _your father. _Next time. . ."

He didn't need to hear the end to that sentence. There wouldn't be a next time.

Next time he marched into this office, he'd get expelled. The look on the Principal's face said as much as that. This was the REAL last warning. Oh, how he dreaded going home now, more than ever.

He was dead.


End file.
